Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Jesus hates Curt Schilling

Just came across a link to one of the largest, most voluminous bags of douche of all-time, Curt Schilling, reliving his "bloody sock" game on his website. Big deal. Babe Didrikson Zaharias once completed an entire triathlon with a bloody tampon and completed the final running portion DESPITE SUFFERING FROM TSS. That takes balls. Or labe. Whatever. Fact is, if Curt Schilling somehow managed to pull out a decent pitching game with a tampon stuck in his ass, not only would we have to deal with iconic images of the string hanging out while he threw a splitter, but that tampon would also be residing in the fucking hall of fame right now and legions of Boston sports fans would jack themselves off while staring at their TAMP-ON A PRAYER posters and frothing at the mouth.

Anyway, I don't have a problem with Curt doing this or invoking how Jesus carried him towards this miraculous feat. I mean, his fucking sock was bleeding! But that doesn't mean I can't make fun of him on my website, as Curt Schilling certainly lays on the mound like a God-damn broad.

I knew I was going to start, but had no idea how I was going to pitch. The ankle, after having been sutured the night before, was holding up a lot better than we’d thought. I was surprised at the amount of bleeding that occurred overnight, and I am sure the maids were a bit worried when they changed my sheets that morning.

And the stage is set. Curt Schilling knew...he'd have to pitch while bleeding. Reminds me of the time Walt Disney bravely led a 1953 construction meeting while suffering from profuse ball-sweating.

I didn’t do anything really abnormal in the day leading up to the start. I did a few more windups in my hotel room than normal, to try and push it a bit to make sure it wasn’t going to pop.

As opposed to, what, amputating the foot? Way to keep a level head, Curt.

The thing I most vividly remember from the hours leading up to the start was hitting the top step in Yankee Stadium. When I went out to pitch Game 1, when I hit the top step to walk to the bullpen, my ankle buckled and the tendon popped out of place. That was the first time I knew I might have a problem.

I call no fucking way, Dr. Schilling. Can anyone with a medical degree from some Caribbean island set the record straight here? This is almost as crazy as the time I was folding laundry during an episode of Home Improvement and my dick fell off.

It was about the 50th time I had faced the Yankees that year, and I knew it would be the last, so I came out of my bullpen having done some things different. Whereas I usually made sure I had fastball command and my split, I worked my ass off in that pen to get a feel for my curveball and slider right off the bat since I wanted to use them for all nine innings, instead of here and there.

Good for you. Just putting this in to keep the story flowing.

In Game 6, there was no specific moment when I knew that I would make it through the game. After pitch one, I never really thought much on it. It held up I think because I never favored it, or at least never felt like I did. In watching some highlights I do notice I limped, but I never thought I was limping.

I didn't feel like I was limping, because I was always told that heroes don't limp. If I was limping, you can call that swagger. And as you'll see later, it can all be attributed to Christ, whom I believe actually gives a fuck about a baseball game while children in Guatemala are being raped by everything other than food and water. I'll call that "limp" my JESUS SWAGGER.

I only realized the ankle was bleeding for one reason. I received multiple Marcaine injections from April on, each start, and as the season wore on I started needing to get in-game injections as well. This game I needed to have it done again, and the Marcaine made the outer half of my foot numb (which was a whole other problem).

That's funny. We all realized that the ankle was bleeding BECAUSE IT WAS FUCKING COVERED IN BLOOD. And who cares? Honestly, is bleeding such a difficult affliction to overcome? Does anybody ever call off of work because they are bleeding? Did Betsy Ross give up on sewing the flag because her old-timey wench girdle was covered in blood and she was out of Marcaine? I don't think so.

In doing so it made me feel as though my shoe wasn’t on right, so I kept pressing down on the bottom of my shoe to move my foot side to side to try and “feel” as if my foot was firmly in my shoe. That’s how I noticed, in about the fifth or sixth inning, that the sole of my shoe and my sock were soaked with blood. You ever walk in the rain in your socks? That’s how it felt. Problem was that it was cold out, too, so that made the blood cold and I could feel it on half my foot.

So you are comparing this heroic, iconic task to pitching with rain in your socks? "Honestly, have any of you laypeople, or should I say gaypeople, even completed the simplest task with RAIN WATER in your SOCKS?!?!? And if so, was it cold?" This is captivating. My attention has just been captured.

In looking back on it, the main thing I take away from that game was my mental ability to overcome anything. I got past the ankle pain and into a state of mind that had me completely focused on the game.

Oh, shut the fuck up. You're so damn special, Curt. You can pitch with rainwatery blood in your socks. Wow, what's next? What else can you overcome? Running out of gas 200 feet from a gas station? Blowing some dude in an alley in spite of a bad hair-day? I'm sure Jackie Robinson and Pete Gray would be amazed at your mental toughness. Curt Schilling can mentally overcome ANYTHING.

I probably did more damage to the ankle than I would have liked. When they opened my ankle up after the season they told me that my peroneal tendon, in addition to being dislocated, was split, lengthwise, for about five inches and wedged over the ankle bone. In a way that was a good thing because it sort of locked itself down.

Dr. Curt Schilling, M. fucking D.

I made it through seven innings, and when I was done, I sat on the bench. I’ve often talked about the spiritual experience that entire two-week period was, and after I came out of this game it really hit me hard.

Here's where we start getting entirely too gay for the average human being. The spirituality of the experienced? You pitched with a bloody ankle. Give me a fucking break. There was nothing spiritual about you overcoming your ankle injury and pitching in a playoff baseball game.

I had prayed hard, never once to “win” but just to be able to compete. I couldn’t do that in Game 1 because in a spiritual and physical sense I had tried to “go it alone.” Before Game 2 I had prayed with Mike Timlin and Tim Wakefield, and I prayed ONLY for the ability to compete. I prayed for that with the belief that with the eight guys playing behind me, and my ability to pitch, I could beat them on one foot if I could just compete.

"And, luckily for me, the Yankees apparently did not pray. In fact, they actually cursed the Lord and suggested that He go and fuck Himself, as they did not need Him to beat me in a game of baseball, as I just had a tendon sutured. Then they pulled their dicks out and pissed all over the rosary while reciting a satanic chant over a Three Six Mafia beat. 'Sippin' On Some Syrup', I believe. This whole time, I was praying with Mike Timlin that I could overcome my bleeding and just throw the ball. And for this I must thank Jesus Christ. Amen".

Looking back on it five years later, it was a much more meaningful event from a faith and spiritual standpoint than from a performance standpoint. I am proud of what we did that night, but I am far more excited about what I was able to experience in my relationship with Christ that night. I knew, postgame, when I started the press conference off by thanking the Lord and the entire media contingent rolled its eyes, how they were going to report it. Whatever they did, I knew they couldn’t come close to conveying what I had experienced.

That's because they think you are a douchebag who actually believes that pitching through an injury forged a stronger relationship with Christ. There are worse things going on in the world, Curt. You pitched through this injury because it was not like career threatening and you could handle the pain. Not because Christ came down and touched your ankle in-between sending devastating tidal waves to Indonesia and Bangladesh. I'm actually more impressed that you were able to pitch with all of the thorns on your hat.

My lasting memory of that game — more than anything that happened while I was on the mound — is of Keith Foulke. Every memory I have of that postseason has Keith in it. He pitched every stinking game and dominated, on fumes.